


He Bleeds But No One Knows

by flippinsirens



Series: Screaming!Verse [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 'torture', Abuse, Angst, M/M, Mentions of Rape, Rape, Trauma, demon!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-11
Updated: 2013-01-11
Packaged: 2017-11-25 02:00:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/633914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flippinsirens/pseuds/flippinsirens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Demon still houses itself inside John. And Sherlock is still at its mercy. In every possible way because the thing didn't just want to have John, but it wanted to tear apart Sherlock, metaphorically and literally.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He Bleeds But No One Knows

Sherlock has it figured out.

It has been five months, two weeks, six days, thirteen hours, and, currently, eleven minutes since John hasn't been John.

Twelve minutes.

Sherlock isn't sure what the first clue was that day except that it was that entire day. It wasn't just John being unusually out of bed so early, because he was known to do that sometimes when his nightmares got the better of him. It wasn't just John skipping his morning cup of tea, sometimes coffee, but Sherlock knew that John preferred strong herbal tea when he woke from a nightmare. It wasn't just John not even blinking when he saw Sherlock staring at him. It wasn't just John not asking if he's been up all night because even if John knew Sherlock hadn't slept he still asked because that is what John does.

Thirteen minutes.

But on that night, Sherlock hadn't heard a single sound coming from John's room except those from earlier in the night when the ex-army doctor was rummaging around, getting ready for bed. Of course the floorboards and walls creaked a little at times, the building wasn't exactly the newest one around and Sherlock thought nothing of it at the time. So, when a particularly loud occurrence of the building settling into the currently shifted foundation, Sherlock ignored it in favor of going back to looking into his microscope, jotting down notes and such even though he already had everything stored in his head—it just gave him something to do.

And now…

Fourteen minutes.

Well now he wished he hadn't ignored that creak. He wished he had gone up to John's room to make sure he was okay—though, he knew he wouldn't have done that because nothing that night had warranted him to worry about John so he couldn't have known what was happening—because sometimes he did because John, if he wasn't screaming, would toss and turn, and Sherlock, being afraid of it progressing to a nightmare and of waking him, would only just sit on the edge of the bed and smooth a hand over John's forehead, pushing back his hair and cooing him back into a much calmer state. He'd only been doing it for a few weeks now ever since he realized that his marriage to his work was failing.

Fifteen minutes.

And it was all John Hamish Watson's fault.

Sixteen minutes.

Somehow, and Sherlock still hadn't figured this out, John had gotten a hold on him and refused to let him go.

Nine months ago, exactly three weeks after Sherlock started going up to John's room to calm the other man, he had woken up before Sherlock managed to sit completely down on the bed. A surprise for both of them, surely. And, not to be cliché because Sherlock was not cliché!, that's when everything happened. Well, not everything. But that's when their already intense co-dependence and friendly relationship took a dive into anything but what would be platonic.

Sherlock never regretted it.

Seventeen minutes.

Except for now.

Now he regretted it. He regretted ever telling Mike Stamford that he needed a flat mate. He regretted ever seeing John for the first time as he walked in and being able to deduce him within seconds and still be fascinated by the man. He regretted telling John the address, his name, taking him on that silly Pink case, allowing him to be his flat mate, sitting with him, eating and talking with him, playing his violin and waking him up which started trivial arguments every time until it didn't anymore and John just sat there and listened because he wasn't bothered anymore by it, eventually playing for John. He regretted all those time he snapped at the man, smiled at him, played ridiculous board games, gave in to John's demands of him.

Eighteen minutes.

He regretted allowing himself to become soft with John. Allowing himself to develop actual feelings and letting his emotions show around John. Because of that John saw a side of him that no one else did, not even Mrs. Hudson. Because of that, he fell in love with the man and it was returned.

Nineteen minutes.

Because of that he was now experiencing one of the worst events of his life. Watching as John slowly became John no longer. Feeling, with every physical ache, his heart shatter into pieces, each piece just stabbing him without a need to stop, each wound oozing every emotion, every smile, every glance he had shared with John, had for John, because of John. Each piece crumbling into a million more.

And there was nothing he could do to stop it. To stop this.

Twenty minutes.

He still lay there. The curls sticking to his sweat slickened skin, the fingers of his right hand twitching beside him as he tried to move, tried to breathe properly. He kept his eyes closed; it prevented him from looking into the eyes of the demon, the eyes of John when the bastard wanted to torture him eve more than he already was.

Being like this, laying on the floor naked, terrified and shaking ever so slightly, with his entire body aching, bruising, and bleeding from places he'd rather not think about, wasn't uncommon anymore. Not since the day the demon had said that he wanted to have a go at Sherlock.

Twenty one minutes.

He's come to sort of expect these bouts from the demon. It doesn't happen often. No more than once a week. That is until this week. Lestrade hadn't needed Sherlock to help him with any cases and the demon wanted to have a bit more time with Sherlock before a case actually did crop up.

Because of course Sherlock still solved cases. And John….the demon, still tagged along, smirking proudly to himself at the way Sherlock had to work twice as hard to walk normally, to hide what had happened, to keep from breaking down in front of the yarders because the demon knew Sherlock would break. He's broken down before.

Twenty two minutes.

He's thought of everything to try and get rid of the demon inside John. He's even tried a few. And that only landed him on the floor, much worse off than he is now. And with the knowledge that they didn't work.

Twenty three minutes.

"Sherlock?" It whispered sickeningly sweetly as it laid a hand on the other's flat, pale stomach, it's fingers coated in Sherlock's blood. The same blood that was currently making a small puddle in between his legs on the hardwood floor, running down his sides, leaking out of the corner of his mouth.

The demon slipped its cold hand farther down, pressing harshly against a cut on Sherlock's pelvis when it got there.

Sherlock, though he tried to stop the reaction, hissed out in pain, the tendons in his neck tensing incredibly as pain shot through his system, reawakening everything else.

Twenty…four minutes.

"No, no, none of that, dear." It said, John's voice now closer to his ear than he had expected it to be. Though, he honestly couldn't collect any more data. His brain simply shut off and all he could do, was capable of doing, was suffering through this torment.

Because it was more than the demon raping him—in every manner. It was John. And the few times that the thing made him open his eyes and look at him, really look at him, it had changed it's coal-black orbs into John's all too familiar ones. And just like that, every bloody time, Sherlock would shake with a sob. Because in those times—

Twenty…five minutes.

-he thought that he could see the real John behind the reinforced glass. He could see that this was paining John just as much as it was paining Sherlock, both emotionally and physically. Yet, there was nothing they could do. The demon had all the power, all the control, in these situations. And Sherlock and John could only play to its rules.

It removed John's hand from his wound, wiping off the blood on a towel nearby, smiling that wicked grin as he looked over his work.

Splotches of horrid color dotted Sherlock's once-pale body, blood stained what bruises didn't cover from slowly healing wounds, the blood flow ceasing as it coagulated. His abdomen rapidly rising and falling with every harsh breath he managed to take in.

Twenty…six…minutes.

"You are beautiful, aren't you?"

He said nothing. He couldn't. Not when he was trying so hard not to heave the content of his stomach out onto the floor even if it wasn't much.

"You've been brilliant, Sherlock, you really have. I must say, I'm impressed."

Sherlock's jaw locked in place, teeth grinding together as he breathed out through his nose, trying to calm himself down, trying to shut down his body so he wouldn't feel anymore, trying to lock his mind in a corner and just stay there.

But it was futile. He couldn't do it.

"Not much of a talker, hm?"

He didn't respond.

Twenty…seven…minutes.

"It's too bad. I bet John would love to hear your voice right now instead of that pathetic begging and screaming you did earlier."

A finger slid over his sore jaw—sore because before the demon had made a mess of things on his lower half, it had made a mess of his mouth—and worked its way onto his bottom lip, pressing against the cut found there.

"Would you care to watch it while you gather your wits about you?" It asked and Sherlock could feel its smug grin and its black eyes gleam.

Twenty….eight…minutes.

"Well, as they say, silence does give consent." It chuckled. It had the nerve to bloody chuckle after having just ruined Sherlock for the second time in just four days.

A rustle of movement told Sherlock that the demon had stood and walked over to the camera set up in the nearest corner, the sick bastard.

Another rustle of movement and the TV clicked on, the wires plugging into their respective color coded inputs and the familiar soft whoosh of air leaving the cushion of John's chair as the demon made himself comfortable.

Twenty…nine…minutes.

And then Sherlock had to experience it all again as the demon pressed play and the sounds started pouring out.

Thirty…minutes…

It was made worse when, just as Sherlock was about to lose consciousness due to pain and the lack of strength he needed to make himself move, the sound of someone so familiar called out his name near the end of the tape like it had done so many times before.

It was made worse when Sherlock recognized that it was John. The real screaming Sherlock's name.

It was made so devestatingly worse when Sherlock realized that John had come back for only a few seconds. That John was strong enough to do that, that John was still fighting against it, that there was still a John inside of himself.

Thirty…one…

It was enough.


End file.
